


If Only for a Night

by octoberland



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 18:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberland/pseuds/octoberland
Summary: He knows they're going to die. He knows love has no place here. But he can't keep from touching her.





	If Only for a Night

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little smutty one-shot I needed to get out of my head. I was inspired stylistically by the one-shots written by primalscream in which they wrote a female character that was a blank canvas so the reader could insert themselves if they wanted to.
> 
> This is my first Quinlan smut so I hope you enjoy. I am always open to constructive feedback.
> 
> I don't own squat. No copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

He loves the way her skin feels, soft and smooth, where his is rough and scarred. The contrast intrigues him and makes him yearn for more. His favorite time to touch her is in the morning, when she is in that place between sleeping and waking. She comes alive slow and hazy under the trail of his warm fingers; first the curve of her hip, then maybe the slight slope of her breast, carefully avoiding that which would bring her to full wakefulness. He doesn’t want her there. Not yet. 

He likes to hear her breath grow from deep to shallow, likes especially the way it hitches and catches in her throat when he finally does touch her where she likes it most. He can hear her heart in those moments; can practically see the blood beating beneath her skin. There was a time when he felt at war with his dual desires but she quashed that anguish quickly, inviting him to feed at will. So long as she was ready. So long as he mixed pleasure with the pain. And he was all too willing to oblige.

His fingers find a rhythm; it is her rhythm, a song written solely for her that makes her body sing like no other he has encountered. At first she is quiet, only the barest of sounds escaping her lips as she begins to move with him, hips rising to meet his hand. But soon she is begging, whispering his name as though he were a god, pleading with him for more.

Her hand slides down to cover his, guiding him to where she opens like a flower. She is slick and his fingers slip, but it's okay. That is part of the game. 

He can read her like a book now. Some days his fingers slide a little lower, and if she desires such a thing, she will spread her legs and arch her back. On those days he has to use both his hands, one to please her and one to fill her. She hides her face when they do this, a ragged cloth of shame clinging to her even after all that has befallen them, but that shame does not stop her. When she comes she screams and he knows that the others must hear it but she doesn’t care so neither does he.

There are times when she likes him to be rough with her. She wears bruises from his stinger with pride on those days, making sure the others can see. And he must admit he likes seeing them too. He likes that they know she's his, that no man would live if he dared touch her. On those days he fucks her hard with his hand. It's too fast for her to come but that's not the point. When she wants it rough it's because she wants to forget and he can’t fault her for that. He understands that desire more than she knows.

Once in a very great while, when she is feeling needy, when she is overwhelmed by death and wants to be as close to him as possible, he will enter her in the only way he truly can. When they do this, it must be slow, and he must be well fed. He will kneel before her and she will be on the bed, pushed to the very edge of it and spread wide and bare for him. He will start by kissing her; gentle and reverent, paying close attention to the spot that brings her pleasure. He can feel it harden under his lips; almost taste the blood flowing there. 

His touch is unhurried. First one finger, then another, enters her. And all the while he is hyper aware. If she tenses, he stops. If her breathing hastens, he stops. If she tells him to, he stops. But most times she does not, and he goes on. He is careful, keeping the sharpness of his stinger cloaked within the folds of his tongue. By now she is breathing deep, sucking in long pulls of air and letting them out slowly. He times each push with her exhales and then, when he is in her as far as she can take it, he opens. He does this in measured increments, counting her blood beats, pulsing in time with them, curling and rippling until he feels her trembling.

The first time they did this she cried and he thought he had hurt her. He'd tried to apologize but she'd merely clung to him as though she would drown if she let go. The second time she'd begged him to stop right before he opened. That night she had climbed atop him instead, and he'd held her as she touched herself, watching in wonder as she came apart in his arms. She never took her eyes away from his, not even as her body shook. She'd kissed him fiercely in the wake of her orgasm. After, she'd gotten up and left the room and didn’t come back until the next night.

The third time, she'd guided him, using her words. "Now," she would whisper, her eyes closed and body flush. And "Fuck," when he would hit that spot just inside her, soft and spongy and the key to her undoing. He hit it again just to hear her curse, reveled in how that power made him feel. They stayed this way for almost an hour, with him inside her, sometimes moving, sometimes not, till she was on the precipice. She was right there, ready to fall, the skin of her chest pink, her breath held tight as she worked her swollen clit, when she did something she'd never done before: 

"May I?" She'd begged him, fingers paused mid-circle.

He could feel her, muscles firm but twitching all around him. He'd wanted to bite her then, to make her bleed and taste her, blood and the sweetness of her arousal filling his mouth as she cried out his name. Something about her asking made him feel feral and he growled in response, stinger rattling instinctively.

It was all the permission she needed.

She did, indeed, cry out his name. Her free hand sought his and she held fast as her body arched and her orgasm tore through her. He didn’t know much of beauty, had never bothered to take the time to notice. But in that moment he found her to be exquisite; the way she trusted him, the way she felt passion with such abandon. That she could be with him in this way filled him with a sense of awe.

He kept very still then, waiting for the beating of her heart to calm; and when, finally, her legs came to rest at his sides, he pulled out, tasting her as he went, reluctant at first, but then she tugged at him, pulling him up and over her as she scooted back towards the middle of the bed.

He lay above her, their eyes locked. He could see that she wanted to say something. Saw too that it pained her. But she said nothing, instead choosing to trace the lines of his face with her fingers. 

"Stay with me," she finally whispered.

He nodded and settled astride her, watching as she drifted off to sleep.

He knew she would die. He knew they would all die. But for tonight she was alive and warm and his and that was something.


End file.
